Orphan Star by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page A

funds?”
    “I can scrape by,” Flinx admitted cautiously. Probably it was his innate distrust of others, though he had to admit that in the past few days Bisondenbit had been not only helpful but downright friendly.
    They boarded the shuttle together. Flinx sat near a glassalloy port, where he would have a good view of the principal thranx world, one of the Commonwealth’s dual capitals. The planet swung lazily below him as the shuttle separated from the freightliner and commenced its descent. Two large moons glowed whitely above the far horizon, one partly hidden by the planet. Wherever the cloud cover broke, Flinx could see hints of blue from Hivehom’s small oceans, rich green from its thick jungles.
    Suddenly he felt the force of gravity pressing him back in his seat as the shuttle dropped tail first through the clouds. . . .

 
    Chapter Three
     
     
     
    Chitteranx was impressive. Though a small port for a world as populous and developed as Hivehom, it still dwarfed the shuttleport of Drallar.
    “The city is mostly underground, of course. All thranx cities are, though the surface is well utilized.” The jeweled head shook in puzzlement. “Why you humans have always chosen to build up instead of down is something I’ll never comprehend.”
    Flinx’s attention was more engaged by the view through the transparent access corridor than by the standard sights of the shuttle terminal. Lush jungle practically overgrew the plastic walls. It was raining outside—steaming, rather. The heat in the terminal was oppressive, despite the fact that it was a compromise between the delightful weather outside—as Bisondenbit called it—and the arctic air atop the nearby plateau.
    Rain, Flinx had grown up with on Moth, but the humidity was something new and unpleasant. Humans could tolerate a hothouse climate, but not for long without protection, and never comfortably.
    Bisondenbit, however, could only grumble about the chill inside the terminal. When Flinx remonstrated, he told him. “This is the principal human port of entry on Hivehom. If we’d landed near the equator, at
Daret
or
Ab-Neub,
you’d be wilting, Flinx.” He looked around as they emerged from the terminal proper into a cluster of roofed-over commercial buildings.
    “Before I have to accompany you up to the plateau, and struggle into a hotsuit, let me enjoy a rational climate for a while. What about a drink?”
    “I’d really like to start looking for Challis as soon as—”
    “The plateau shuttles run every ten chronits,” Bisondenbit insisted. “Do come. Besides, you still haven’t told me: What do you keep in that box?” A truhand gestured at the large square case Flinx lugged with his left hand.
    “It must be something exotic and valuable, judging from the care with which you’ve handled it.”
    “It’s exotic, I suppose,” he admitted, “but not particularly valuable.”
    They found a small eating place just inside the climate-controlled cluster of buildings. Only a few humans were present, though it was crowded with thranx. Flinx was thoroughly enchanted with the thranx resting couches, the subdued lighting which made even midday appear dim, and the ornately carved, communal drinking cannisters suspended from the ceiling above each booth.
    Bisondenbit selected an isolated table at the back of the room and made helpful, though unnecessary recommendations. Flinx had no trouble deciphering the menu which was printed in four languages: High Thranx, Low Thranx, symbospeech and Terranglo.
    Bisondenbit ordered after Flinx opted for one of the several thousand liqueurs which the thranx were masters at concocting.
    “When do you want to go back to the terminal to pick up the rest of your luggage?” the insect asked casually, after their drinks arrived. He noted with approval that Flinx disdained a glass in favor of one of the weaving-spouted tankards used by the thranx themselves.
    “This is it,” Flinx told him, indicating his small